


Nor Bid the Stars Farewell

by PasdeChameau



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Anal Fingering, But at least they have the chance to shack up together, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is still pretty awful actually, F/M, Goodsir Lives, Porn with Feelings, Silna is still exiled, but no one else does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17216135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PasdeChameau/pseuds/PasdeChameau
Summary: In the deepening winter, Silna cares for Harry. Written for the kinkmeme prompt: Goodsir/Silna, prostate massage.





	Nor Bid the Stars Farewell

They have taken to sleeping back-to-back. Harry, gnawed nearly to the bone by starvation, still has not regained sufficient weight to place his body between Silna and the wind and darkness, and yet—after that first night in his tent—he had balked and fretted to feel her press her chest to his back and twine her arms around him. Afraid, no doubt, that she would catch cold. His gallantry, she understood, was a plaything, a comfort, and so she let him keep it, and turned her face from him as they slept, their spines notching together with every breath.

Tonight, though, there is a gulf in her dreams and at her back—the air around her loose and shifting, like the sand on the beaches Harry sometimes spoke of. It pulls her from her sleep, and then outside the _igloo_ , to where she knows she will find him.

Harry stands not five paces from the shelter, motionless, head tipped slightly back and lips parted, as though to catch the starlight on his tongue. He wears the caribou trousers and _kamik_ Silna has stitched for him, but perched atop all is his old blue coat, worn threadbare in places. He is crying—she can’t hear him, even in the echoing cold, but she sees the sobs rise from him in halting puffs of breath.

Gently, she touches his arm. He does not startle. “Come inside,” she signs. “You’re not well.”

He turns to face her, and she brushes away a tear that has tangled in his beard. Through her mittens she can’t feel the dampness, already giving way to frost. The thought twists uncomfortably in her chest. “Come inside,” she repeats.

He does, dragged listlessly in her wake as she crawls back into the _igloo_ ’s warmth. Once there, she sets about undressing him; where she leads, he follows, and so she is certain he will accompany her back into sleep. But the sadness that clings to him tonight is overpowering, and try as she might, she finds she cannot shift it. In the end, it stops her short in her ministrations and draws her face to his. Their lips meets in quick, glancing brushes that slowly bottom out into something wet and heavy.

The kissing had been new to Silna, and is still something of a curiosity—though curiosity too is pleasure of a kind. And Harry is hungry for it, always, so they have shared breath together many times.

That—and what comes after.

Silna knows, of course, that Harry is in love with her, and has been nearly since they met. She is less certain of herself; she has passed too much of her life with only her father for company to be sure of what she feels now. Tenderness, certainly, for the boyish way Harry looks at her, and the soft curls that wrap themselves around her finger. And desire too, because Harry is beautiful, and so lonely—lonely in a way that Silna understands too well.

Now, Harry’s hands slip beneath her parka, cupping her waist and following her curves upward. The pads of his fingers are soft—almost downy—and she shudders as they ghost across her breast. He touches her with a reverence she might once have thought condescending, but which she knows now is merely kindness. Or rather _wholly_ , because Harry’s earnestness—in this and all else—is a precious thing. She sighs as his hands dip into her leggings, and exhales, hot, across the shell of his ear.

Yet as pleasurable as Harry’s attentions are, she would just as soon have him inside her—just as soon feel, perhaps as he does, that there at least he can be safe and warm. And so she plucks his hands away and sets back to work upon his clothing, shucking layer after layer until they are nestled down naked amongst her sleeping furs.

Harry’s body is familiar to her now—not just the sweep of hair across his chest, or the slide of his skin against hers, but the things that make him pant with desire. She could bring him to full arousal in short order if she chose, but she does not. Perhaps it is that Harry changes slightly with each passing day, the hollows of him filling in as he grows stronger. Regardless, for Silna, there is always something of the stranger about him, and so she takes her time, dipping her fingers leisurely in the oil of the _kudlik_ that flickers beside them, then teasing them along the length of his cock.

Harry hisses, and Silna purses her lips around a smirk. “Good?” she asks, even though he is half-hard against her hip already.

Harry’s eyes, clenched shut, flit open. “You know it is,” he says, and though there are salt tracks on his cheeks still, there is mischief in his voice. The sound of it is heartening after so many months of black despair, and Silna wraps her fingers around him, tugging playfully—firm enough to vex, too loose for anything else. He huffs a bit at that, but if his manner is impatient, the quirk of his lips is not. Silna kisses him again—long and sweet, a distraction—then drops her hand lower, tickling at his stones, determined to make him laugh, if only briefly.

But that is not what happens. Instead, he wriggles like a fish in her grasp, and groans as her fingers wander delicately downwards to stroke the flesh behind his sack. She stills once more, and her question now is all seriousness. “Good?”

Harry, blushing and aglow against the drabness of the furs, does not seem able to answer. He tucks his chin into she shoulder, his lips into his mouth, and turns to look at Silna only when she pats his thigh. “Good?” she repeats.

“Ah—good,” he says, his hand stuttering through his curls. “Yes. Perhaps—too good.”

Silna frowns, unsure now whether to withdraw. Harry is propped upon one elbow and chattering feverishly—a comical sight, no doubt, but Harry has lapsed into his native tongue, and it's all that Silna can do to parse sound from sound.

“…spot…male of the species…even from outside…pleasant. Good.”

She seizes on the word she knows. “Do you enjoy it?” she signs, and then, when Harry only stares, “Do you want it?”

Harry flushes brighter and switches back into careful Inuktitut. “I haven’t. Myself. But it felt—”

“Good,” she finishes, and grasps his hand, drawing it down his body. “Show me.”

So he does, at least at first, folding her fingers in his and guiding them low, and then lower still, to the clinch of muscle where his body opens. He releases her there, with a trust that nearly stops her heart, and sighs as she brushes tentatively against his entrance.

Moments pass. Harry has settled back against the furs once more and is breathing deeply, as if in sleep or trance. His forehead, though, is creased and lightly daubed with sweat, so Silna presses harder—languid strokes paired with nips and kisses along his neck and collarbone. At last, Harry moans and cants his hips downwards, into her waiting grasp. Dabbling her fingers once more in the glow of the lamplight, she presses slowly in.

Harry’s features snag taut on a grimace, and Silna nearly pulls away; Harry has known altogether too much pain. It passes in a flash, though, leaving him loose and warm around her knuckle. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes—like that. Yes.”

The curiosity—the hunger to know more and more of Harry—takes her then. Carefully, she moves—backwards, forwards, then crooks her finger.

“Oh!” Harry’s back arches, and Silna’s eyes snap to his face. Quickly, before she can even frame the question, he reassures her. “It’s good, yes—God, yes. It—” he hesitates, wipes weakly at his brow, “If you would—again?”

Silna smiles, and obliges. First with one finger, then with two, pressing firm against the spot that makes him moan. Harry pants and twists against her, and she herself is aflame, wetness pooling between her legs and sticking to her haunches where she kneels, working pleasure back into Harry’s body. Her chest aches with desperate sympathy and desire; she ducks down once more, dragging her lips across his thighs and belly, drawing his scent into her. It’s an old, flat smell, like damp fur, but any scent at all is warm and living here, where the cold strips away one’s senses, eating up everything but its own sharp tang. She inhales greedily, as Harry’s groans hang heavy in the air around them—a kind of embrace.

Suddenly, Harry’s muscles tighten around her, and his fingers fumble past her scalp to tug himself to completion. She raises her head—too slow to avoid catching a spatter of seed across her cheek, but fast enough to see Harry’s face as he falls over the edge. And that, she finds, is more than enough—the cinch of his brow, the gleam of teeth as he bites his lip, and the bright stillness that settles over him in the moments afterwards. A stillness that has no echo of death in it.

Once Harry’s breathing slows, she draws her fingers from him—mindfully, but he hisses nevertheless. She touches his arm. “I’m sorry,” she signs quickly.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.” Grasping for her hand, he tugs her up to lay against his chest, and wipes her cheek clean with his thumb. He is looking at her with an intensity that recalls the expression he bore not an hour earlier, painted on him in starlight. Not melancholy now, but something too close, in its seriousness, to take to bed with them tonight. Talk—of what he has seen, and what she may feel—must wait for daylight, and it is for that reason, as much as to quell the ache between her legs, that she pulls his hand downwards once again.

“Now me,” she signs.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this required some forays into Inuit culture, and research is soooo not my strong suit. I've tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but if you spot any glaring errors please let me know.
> 
> Also, this is the first fanfic I've written in literally years, and while I wanted to make things official by posting to AO3, I am crazy nervous.


End file.
